


Outta the Suburbs

by JennaMoon



Series: The Stucky Collective [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Child Abuse, Happy Ending, Period-Typical Homophobia, Supportive Steve Rogers, Trans Bucky Barnes, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 01:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17397236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaMoon/pseuds/JennaMoon
Summary: 'I don’t look like James Buchanan Barnes.I look smoking hot.I look feminine.I look like a fuckin’ Bucky.'





	Outta the Suburbs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LivRulesTheUniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivRulesTheUniverse/gifts).



> Part of 'The Stucky Collective' - I am writing one Stucky FanFiction a week (at least) for the next year. 
> 
> Inspired by 'The Suburbs' by Arcade Fire.

Have you ever eaten raw egg as part of a dare (or for the sake of morbid curiosity)? It’s fucking gross. All slime and cold and raw. So fucking gross.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you are not leaving this house!”

 My dad is fucking gross, too. I mumble ‘Bucky’ under my breath, closing my eyes and wincing as a thick hand grabs my shoulder. His hand is uncomfortably warm, digging into my flesh. There’s more yelling and it rips into my chest. And it continues to spit into my ear but I attempt to ignore it. Whisky is fresh on his breath. Mom is at work. Rebecca is, luckily, still out. More yelling.

Always fucking yelling.

He tries to turn my body, but the drink makes him stagger too much to move me. He growls, deep. “You listening, James? You and your faggy-”

Oh. That’s a good way to get my attention. I turn to him, shoving his obese arm off me. He scowls and I scowl back. There’s a deep silence that takes over, thick and stone-cold. Eyes deep in contact, his green on my blue. His red nostrils flaring and eyes strong against my own. Teeth bared.

This isn’t the first stare-down this week.

 Usually I would be the one to look down first, too tired and too mature to argue back, and run to Rebecca’s room. To make sure was alright. Not scarred by the yelling. But Sarah is out and there’s one whiskey bottle too many scattered on the living room floor, one cigar butt burnt into the fabric of the floral couch over the usual limit.

The longer we stay in this stare-down the more gross he becomes. There’s brown under his nails from where he’s been picking and scratching at his ass. He smells, under the fucking downpour of cheap-ass whiskey-piss, like shit, too.

The disgust is visible in my eyes. At least, I fucking hope it is.

His fist breaks the staring contest, knocking into my jaw and nose. Wind whistles through my ears as I recoil, doubling up as the world spins around me. The kitchen counter hits my back, preventing a potentially dangerous fall.

 My eyes water and nose drips blood. Huh, My nostrils are as red as his now. I wipe the blood onto my sleeve, spitting out the flehm that has accumulated in my throat. It’s fucking gross as it lands on the tiled flooring, some heavily cracked and others smeared with dirt.

He looks ready to hit again and I tense despite myself.

“Fuck you.” I growl, grabbing my jacket. His hand grabs onto my sleeve and I shove him off. I can hear him shouting ‘James’. He follows me to the door and stands on the porch as I rush off down the driveway. He won’t come after me. Doesn’t have the damn stamina.

“James! I’ll beat your ass, boy! I’ll beat you dead!” He yells, thumping the wall. I hear the hanging basket, long since dead, fall onto the floor with a crash. I turn just before reaching the corner, middle finger up in the air.

“My name is fuckin’ Bucky.”

 

It’s a 45-minute walk to Steve’s home, a three-bed apartment in a block generally full of noise and life, not that I’d ever really complain about it. I generally find that in my neighbourhood, my house is the one full of noise. And it was never for a good reason, neither. Not that there was any shame about it, mind. If a neighbour complained, my dad would be the one who retaliated with two pumps of a shot gun and a mailbox stuffed with rat guts.

I think my dad started hating me even more when I told him I wasn’t gonna work for Barnes Extermination. He must have always known; I would take out the rats from the buckets of water he wanted to drown them in and set them free outside when I was meant to be ‘learning the trade’. Some fucking trade, gassing out cockroaches and killing mice.

My jaw hurts, though my nose feels kinda numb. He got a good hit in that time, to say he’s a drunken moron.

The blood stopped soon after leaving; not the worst I’ve received from the bastard afterall. But I’m pretty sure the bruise is gonna be a good one on my cheek. It’s tender and red, warm to the touch. My dad sure is good at compromising my good looks.

The walk goes quite fast, though people like to try and stop me. A glare makes them stop pretty sharpish. With my long, unkempt hair and icy death stare, I must look pretty intimidating. Which is useful because I don’t wanna fucking talk to people.

I fumble through my pocket, taking out my key to Steve’s apartment. It’s the only key I have; my dad is a firm believer that if we get robbed, he’ll be there with his gun to greet the bastard with the barrel end up his ass. Not the nicest imagery, I know, but at least my old man has some sort of imagination. It’s about the only thing he has going for him.

The apartment is empty. Sarah (Mrs Rogers) is probably at one of her two jobs, and since it’s only four PM, it wouldn’t be the hospital one. Steve would be at work for another hour. Lifting and unloading boxes, unloading and lifting boxes. He’d then probably go for a run around the lake for a half hour. Come back here, wait until my mom would finish work at 7 PM, call and speak to me for an hour before his mom came before she needed to leave again.

Steve’s home has been sorta like mine for a few years now. I have my own drawer, blanket… toothbrush. It’s nice, feeling wanted.

I lock the door behind me, putting my jacket on the coat rack and headed to the kitchen-dining room. Time for Chef Bucky to make an appearance.

 

When Steve gets home, the smell of cardboard bowtie pasta mixed with frozen vegetables and (yeah, a little counter-productively) some sort of packaged cheese sauce is high in the air. I think it looks awesome. Chef Bucky, you’ve done it again, you son of a bitch. I begin to dish it out when I hear the door unlocking, and it takes only four seconds for Steve to smell the food, look at my jacket and close the door-

“Hey, Bucky!” Steve calls, putting down his rucksack with a thud. He walks through into the kitchen-dining room. I keep my back turned for now; there’s gonna be conversation about the bruise and red nose and I’d rather not have it when holding a hot bowl of pasta.

“Aren’t you meant to say ‘honey, I’m home’?” Steve chuckles, wrapping his arms around me. He places his head on my shoulder, smiling. He smells like sweat and cheap aftershave. He smells like Steve, underneath, oak and the soil after light rain.

“I will when we have our own place.” He tells me. I sigh into his body, letting him support my body weight. He takes it easily, stroking my stomach with his thumb. “Thought you weren’t coming over today…”

“I was going to beg Mr. Kowalski for my job back, but uh…” I turn in his arms, rolling my eyes at the gasp and sudden hand caressing my cheek. At least, until he presses slightly too hard into the mould of my mouth, catching a nerve. “Hey, calm it down fella!” I say, batting his hand away.

We meet eyes and they seem to practically sing at me, bright blue and easy to get lost in, wading selflessly in the comfort they bring. He kisses my nose real gentle, sighing. He’s suppressing his anger; there’s not any point in it and there has been too many arguments in the past about it. Instead, he pulls me close and strokes my hair.

“Soon, Buck.” He says gently. “We’ll move-”

“When Becca gets into college.” I interrupt, though smiles and nods all the same.

“Yeah, when Becca gets away. We’ll move to New York and you can read stories to kids and I’ll teach art or something.” I grin, petting his cheek.

“Steve Rogers, the man with a plan… stop distractin’ me and go sit.” He does as he’s told and I bring him his food, petting his cheek. As I plate up my own food, Steve stares. Smiling. Happy.

“I’m gonna marry you so hard.” He says as I walk over to the table. I grin at him, stabbing pasta with my fork. “Seriously.”

“I hear ya, Stevie. And I believe it.”

We eat in silence, comfortable and at ease. It isn’t until Steve finishes that a conversation finds its way to the table again.

“I’m surprised you didn’t change.”

Look up from my food, and tilt my head. “I got here round four, cleaned my face off and started preparing food…” There’s a glint in his eye and I snort. “You bought it, didn’t you?” I ask, shaking my head.

Steve’s shoulders drop and he gives me an excited grin. I roll my eyes. “You fool, how much was it?”

“I got 20% with Peggy’s employee discount.”

“So…”

“$18…”

“Steve, that’s too much!” I stand up, walking over to the door. “Too much money. I’ll wear it, and love it. But too much money. You can do the dishes ‘cause that.”

“I was gunna do ‘em anyway, doll.”

“I saved your Ma lots.”

I leave the room and feel the grin stretch from ear to ear. Foolish amount of money, too much money spent on one little thing. But either way, it’s my little thing now.

Steve’s room is tidy, save for the shirt on his bed, assumedly the discarded option of the day. I quickly throw it into the hamper in the corner of the room, sitting on the bed. The sheets are fresh and a cream white, they feel soft and inviting on my skin. I look across at the wardrobe, biting my lip. The skin on my arms and legs spring up, I can feel every single one. Prominent. Awful.

“Gotta shower first, Buck.” I speak, before headed to the bathroom.

 

Half an hour later. My skin smells like lavender and hair some sort of floral note ( _Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific_ ) is too long a brand name but it is what Sarah buys, so I won’t complain. I’m smooth all over, lotion successfully rubbed into my skin and parfum dipped upon decidedly intimate areas. I blow-my hair, letting it fall into smooth, voluminous waves. It’s touching my shoulder’s now. My dad’s voice booms through my head: ‘are you a damn sissy?’.

If only he fucking knew.

Steve politely doesn’t acknowledge me as I skip past him to get to his room (our room). He knows better than to spoil the surprise for himself. I close the door, first opening up the bottom drawer in his desk.

I pull out a black bikini brief, fingering the lace bow sat on the left side. I slide them up, over my legs, left first then right, then both together. They sit nicely on my hips, and they also cover up the right stuff. And the bra, a black JCPenney’s bra with sewn-in padding. I smile, clasping it on. I look in the mirror, shifting until they look about right, sitting nicely on my chest.

Then, I open the wardrobe. Usually, there would be four dresses, generally hand-me-downs from Sarah that she had modified to fit me a little better. But now I could see that fifth one. New, hanging on a purple hanger covered in felt. I take it out, holding it up against the light.

It’s a soft blue, light and sleek, with an empire waist that would do exactly what I wanted it to. Quickly throw it on over my head, smiling widely. I get to fastening the material belt into a bow, pulling to the right; giving me the illusion of a smaller waist. The cut-away collar of the dress sits just below my neck, meaning that there is nothing that may suggest my breasts are fake.

I don’t look like James Buchanan Barnes.

I look smoking hot.

I look feminine.

I look like a fuckin’ Bucky.

After applying some blush and pink gloss (mascara still creeps me the fuck out so it takes a lotta courage to put it on) I make my way out of the room. Steve is on the couch, focusing on the TV. I cough to get his attention, putting a hand on my hip and jutting it out. “Stevie.” I say.

His face turns and I watch as his eyes take me in. He begins to grin, jumps over the couch and cups my cheek. He kisses my forehead, my nose and my lips, sighing happily.

“You like?”

“Always, Bucky. My girl. My best girl.” He kisses me again, picking me up with a slight grunt. He tries to hide it, make it as silent as possible. As if it would change anything.

At least he can pick me up now. It wasn’t until around fifteen that he finally got taller than me; the muscles came soon after, when Gus Kowalski decided to give him a chance in the warehouse. In a matter of six months Steve went from the smallest guy in the year to the biggest, with muscles to match. I think it helped me come to terms with myself, too.

He takes me to the couch, setting us down and pressing his lips to my neck. “You smell so good, doll.” He whispers. I snort, turning to face him.

“That’s a fucking weird-ass line. But I get it. I smell fucking great.”

“Shame you showered though, I would have liked you to join me.”

“Hm, I bet. Guess I’ll just have to wait on my lonesome.”

“Bummer… Hey, serious conversation for a minute, baby?” He asks, petting my thigh. I shuffle off his lap, sitting cross-legged on the couch as he shifts.

“What’s on your mind?”

“You know when my mom got me that Auburndale Art School application and I filled it out to make her happy?”

I already know what he’s going to say. “Yeah?”

“They like my stuff, Buck. Offered me scholarship.” He smiles, wide. I nod, smiling back.

“Awesome, awesome… And practically?”

“This is why we gotta talk. If I don’t take this, Buck… who’s to say this’ll happen again?”

I bring my knees up to my chest, staring at him.

“So…”

“Come with me. Please, Bucky. Come with me.” He takes my hands, kissing them. “I can’t leave my best girl.”

“Steve, I can’t leave Becca. I, I can’t do that to her.” Steve does his fucking guilty-ass grimace. I gasp. “You’ve already…”

“Spoke to her? Yeah. I have. Of course I have, Buck. She said she’ll move in with your Grandma.”

“So you made the decision for me, punk?”

“No, not at all! I just… I fucking love you. I’m gonna marry you, gonna make sure the world knows you’re my wife. And let’s face it, Buck, where else can we go other than New York? I don’t want to keep this, keep us a secret. You’re so beautiful, Bucky…”

I look away, feeling a tug in my chest. A feeling of ‘yes, this is right’ and ‘no, this is wrong’. A mix of feelings, really. Steven Grant Rogers has always been a fucking pro at making my head spin. Still, I wouldn’t trade him for the world. Which is why I know the answer.

“You better find an apartment close enough to your school, with enough room for Becca to come over and stay during holidays.” I say, smiling as he grins, laughing. He grabs my cheeks, kissing me deeply, fiercely. I crawl back onto his lap, taking in a quick breath.

He pauses to take in air, too. “I’m gonna illustrate movies for Walt Disney and you’ll be my muse for any and every goddamn piece of art I do. You’re beautiful. Perfect.”

Sighing, I brush my hand through his hair. “I’ll get a job doing something fun.”

“We’ll make loads of friends, Buck, good friends who get how much of a wonderful woman you are.”

“Awesome, Stevie….”

We went back to kissing, maybe a bit too heavily. Sarah Rogers opened the door to find his son half-over me, my neck covered in hickies. She shook her head, tutting

“Steven Grant Rogers, I thought I taught you better. Take the lady to bed at least.”

Steve blushed, sitting up. I laughed, punching his arm. “Sorry, Ma… Bucky agreed to move with me.” He said, wrapping an arm around me. Sarah smiled as she placed her handbag on the coffee table.

“I said she would… you excited, Bucky?”

I smile at her, glancing at Steve. His eyes are so warm, and clear, and full of love. I snuggle into his side. “Very.”

 

 

* * *

 

_And next up we have the number one Billboard hit for this week… Jessie’s Girl by Rick Springfield, 19 weeks after entering the chart!_

“Baby we gotta go!” Steve calls, over the music. I turn to face him, pouting.

“This song is the bomb, honey, we can’t just-”

“You wanna keep Tony waiting?”

“… If it’ll piss him off, yeah…” Steve rolls his eyes, kissing the corner of my mouth.

“It’ll upset him.” He says, giving me that goddamn pointed look, where he lifts up one eye brow and keeps the other low. I roll my eyes, feeling Steve pat my hip. “I like this skirt.”

“Thor.” I reply. Steve nods, looking over me once more.

“Of course, God he’s talented. I need to paint you looking like this, Bucky.”

“All dressed up with a drag show to go to?”

“Precisely. Come on, before we actually do have a pissed off Queen on our hands.”

I turn off the radio, grabbing my coat. Steve grabs his jacket, extending his hand out to me. “Shall we be off, Mrs Rogers?”

“Let’s go paint the town, Mr. Rogers.”

**Author's Note:**

> For LivRulesTheUniverse, the friend who gets it. 
> 
> Find the playlist on Spotify 'The Stucky Collective' - https://open.spotify.com/user/1133181695/playlist/3hOMig6SthQ9tv5IIBNm3L?si=kjFTv9lBQMqLic2fezUUTQ
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at shouldhavestayedonthebus
> 
> Thank you!


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